Overview
- The forces of the night awaken. The Full Moon stirs the strength that drive each faction, intensifying both power and consequence. As tensions rise and new abilities emerge in response to the chaos, conflicts will escalate, alliances will be tested, and survival will demand strategy and cooperation.
Abilities
Vampires
- Autophagy (active): Sacrifice some blood to regenerate health.
- Hemostasis (passive): Triggered when receiving damage in combat. Slowly regain blood over time during few minutes.
Lycans
- Pack Call (active): Upon growling, all other Lycans in the pack receive a message in their local chat that includes a clickable URL with the coordinates of the battle region.
- Lycan Union (passive): Those who respond to the Pack Call including the initiator, receive 10% increased damage during few minutes.
- Lone Wolf (passive): if Pack Call fails, Lone Wolf buff is triggered for the initiator granting 20% increased damage during few minutes.
Note: Only those who join the caller and remain within 20m radius at the end of Pack Call (30s) will receive Lycan Union buff.
Witches
- Healing (active): Resurrect/heal injured mortals and gain rage. When the rage level reach 100% Arcane Wrath buff is triggered.
- Arcane Wrath (passive): Grants 20% increased damage during few minutes.
Hunters
- Hunter Focus (passive): Focus gauge increases when receiving damage in combat. At 100% triggers Hunter Focus buff which grant 30% chance to deal critical damage during few minutes.
- Hunter Fury (passive): Critical damage is increased by 50%.
The Crimson Eclipse
The Full Moon rises, vast and unrelenting, casting its silver gaze upon a world steeped in chaos. Beneath its cold glow, the battlefield smolders—ashen ruins, shattered weapons, and lifeless forms litter the land. Yet, the true war is far from over.
In the silence between heartbeats, they emerge. Shadows slipping between the trees, the scent of blood guiding them like an unspoken call. Hunger thrums in their veins, sharpening their senses, igniting something primal, something insatiable. This night belongs to them. The mortals do not yet realize it, but their fate has already been sealed.
They descend upon the remnants of war, moving like specters through the carnage. The scent of death is intoxicating, thick with the promise of renewal. A fallen body, still warm. Their fingers trace the pulse of a dying heart, savoring the final, desperate beats. Then—fangs sink deep.
It is ecstasy.
The stolen lifeblood rushes through them, searing away weakness, filling every nerve with exquisite power. They drink, not merely to sustain, but to claim dominion over life itself. With each pulse of stolen vitality, their bodies mend, their wounds knitting together as if time itself bows before their thirst. The Moon has not merely blessed them—it has awakened something long buried.
But blood alone is not enough.
The night air trembles as the battle resumes. They step into the fray, fangs bared, reveling in the chaos. Blades bite into flesh, claws tear through armor, and yet, even as pain lashes against them, they do not falter. Their bodies defy suffering, for every wound is merely a vessel—an offering to their own dark gift.
The first strike lands. A blade carves into their side, yet they do not cry out. Instead, they exhale, slow and controlled, as the wound knits itself shut, the stolen blood working its silent magic. Pain is fleeting. The hunger is eternal.
Every cut, every wound—it is nothing but fuel for what lies within. The more they bleed, the more their bodies remember what they are: creatures of the night, undying, relentless. They do not retreat. They endure. They regenerate. They outlast.
The battle rages, but they do not fall.
The Full Moon watches, and they drink deep.
For as long as the night endures, they will not be denied.
The Price of Mercy
The battlefield is silent now, but only in the way death is silent. The earth is slick with blood, torchlight flickering against twisted limbs and lifeless eyes. The war has left its mark—a senseless clash of claws and fangs, where neither victor nor reason remains. Only ruin.
They step forward, their boots sinking into the crimson-soaked ground, their breath slow and measured. The scent of death is thick, cloying, suffocating. Among the fallen, some still linger on the edge of oblivion, their bodies trembling, their hands weakly grasping at empty air. The sight of them stirs something deep, something raw—sorrow, fury, a need to mend what has been so cruelly broken.
Soft incantations spill from their lips, a language older than time itself. The moon, their eternal witness, watches from above, its glow pulsing in rhythm with their whispers. The first healing touch is tentative, like dew settling on a wilting leaf, but as warmth returns to cold skin, something stirs within them. A presence. A force. It coils in the pit of their being, seeping into their veins with each life they save.
At first, they do not recognize it, mistaking the sensation for relief. But as their hands pass over another dying soul, and then another, the truth reveals itself. This is no mere gratitude from the heavens—this is judgment. A power both foreign and familiar rises in tandem with each act of restoration, filling them, shaping them, demanding something yet unnamed.
The moon does not simply watch. It weighs. It remembers. It sees beyond mercy, beyond intention. It counts each act, tallying the balance of life returned against the lives so needlessly taken. And when the scale tips—when enough have been saved—they feel it fully. A shift in the air, a pulse through their very bones. The grief that once weakened now strengthens, the sorrow that once ached now burns.
They are no longer mere healers. The Moon has answered.
The question remains: how will they respond?
Some whisper of another path. Not one of salvation, but of retribution. The fallen need not return as they were. They could be something more—something vengeful, unchained from the frailties of mortality. A reckoning in fleshless form, hunting those who brought this ruin upon them.
The choice lingers like an unspoken curse. Restore what was lost… or ensure it can never be taken again?
The night holds its breath, waiting.
The Last Line of Defense
A silver eye watching over a world plunged into chaos. The night air is thick with the scent of blood, the echoes of battle carrying across the land. Beneath its ghostly glow, they move like shadows, their steps measured, their weapons gleaming with purpose. They have no supernatural strength—only discipline, knowledge, and an unshakable resolve to keep the darkness at bay.
They have been preparing for this night, for the inevitable onslaught that the moon’s pull awakens. Vampires hunt freely, lycans rampage in packs, and death stains the earth. They take their stand. Their senses are honed, their every strike precise. The Full Moon does not grant them monstrous power, but it sharpens their instincts—an unnatural clarity coursing through their veins. Each Hunter moves with calculated efficiency, their blades finding their marks, their silver-tipped bolts piercing the night with deadly accuracy. Hunter’s Focus fuels them, their every strike aimed for the heart, the neck, the fatal weak points of their prey.
Yet even the most skilled warrior can falter against overwhelming numbers.
A lone Hunter finds himself cornered in the ruins of an abandoned village. Lycans prowl in the shadows, their golden eyes gleaming with hunger. The remnants of broken bodies and shattered steel litter the ground—a battleground where many have already fallen. He steadies his breathing, gripping his blade tightly. He knows he won’t go down without a fight, but even he cannot withstand an entire pack alone.
Then, a shift in the air. A whisper of incantations laced with power. A presence.
From the gloom behind him, a figure steps forward, robes billowing in the wind, fingers weaving the fabric of reality itself. The warlock does not speak, does not need to. A single nod is exchanged—silent trust. Ancient magic flares to life, barriers rise, wounds knit together. The lycans hesitate for but a moment, their instincts warning them of the change in tides. It is all the Hunter needs.
With renewed strength, he lunges, the warlock’s spells lacing his strikes with unseen force. Silver steel flashes, magic crackles, and one by one, the beasts fall. When the battle ends, the Hunter exhales, bloodied but standing. The warlock turns to leave, their duty fulfilled, but the Hunter speaks—just two words.
Thank you.
The warlock pauses, then disappears into the night.
This unspoken bond is a rarity in a world divided by power. They are not bound by the same magic nor the same lineage, but by necessity. The Hunters know the witches hold the key to turning the tide of battle, and the witches know the Hunters are the only ones who see them as something other than threats or pawns. In this war, amidst the carnage and the chaos, they have found the closest thing to an ally.
As the moon reigns over the battlefield, the Hunters push forward. Their enemies are stronger, faster, relentless—but so are they. Not because of supernatural gifts, but because they are human. And no creature, no matter how ancient or powerful, knows the art of survival better than them.
The night is far from over.